


All the ways we love

by jamlockk



Series: All the ways we love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Completed as now posting as a series, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, John POV, Johnlock drabbles, Johnlock ficlets, M/M, POV First Person, POV Multiple, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-02 00:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fluffy Johnlock ficlets, as posted on my tumblr (come join me for ficlet Friday, my new tradition inspired by this wonderful, amazingly creative fandom). I'll add tags as I go, but basically this is just a collection of little moments and headcanons about two idiots in love.</p><p>
  <b>A/N: marking this complete as I'm now posting each work individually as part of a series</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wonderful Disobedience of Transport

I peer through the open bathroom door. John is standing, shirtless, in front of the sink. He’s looking at his reflection. Feeling a bit old, a bit tired, not as fit as he was in the Army but running around after me has kept his body trim, his shoulders powerful (the scar is still endlessly fascinating, odd but true, I’ve seen it briefly a few times, never this close or for this long. I must take in the rest of him as well, take advantage of a chance opportunity to observe), his arms gently sculpted, his stomach just a little soft in the middle. The hair sprinkling across his chest and trailing down to the top of his pyjama bottoms is light, honey-coloured. His eyes are still the blue they were when I first captured them in the still-expanding John rooms of my mind palace. Deep, clear, mirthful, focused, worried, annoyed, stormy. A mishmash that shouldn’t hold attention for any more than a few seconds. Ordinary. Like John. Except he isn’t ordinary. Never has been. Just hides it well.

He’s beautiful.

He turns to me, eyebrows raised, surprised smile playing on his lips. 

Oh. Might’ve said that out loud.

Ah. I feel a bit…. Stuck. I’m just standing there, in the doorway, blinking at beautiful John. I should move. Why aren’t my limbs responding? My transport won’t obey. Damn.

I try again. My mouth opens. Then closes. Opens again. Closes once more. I have become one of Mycroft’s goldfish. Fuck.

John frowns at me. He’s speaking, asking me something. I should focus.

“Do you really think so, Sherlock?”

His voice is soft, it feels pleasant in my ears. I find I’m nodding, I agree. Well of course I agree. It’s obvious. John is beautiful. I’ve said it now, just let the words fall from my head out of my mouth, but my lack of impulse control doesn’t make it any less true. Yes. John is beautiful.

He’s smiling again, that soft, half-smile that makes his eyes glitter. He’s still looking at me standing in the bathroom doorway. I close my mouth again. Apparently it saw fit to fall open without my permission, just a little but enough. Stupid.

John is turning away from the sink now and he approaches me much how I envision he would approach a frightened horse. Dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle. I sympathise.

He stops in front of me and takes my hand in his. His hand is warm, mine is not. His hand is stubby, mine is not. His hand is beautiful. Mine is not, but in his, together with his, it seems less pale, less spindly, less ridiculous. Hm. John’s presence always improves things. This also applies to parts of my body, it seems.

He’s lifting my hand now, bringing it close to his face. I can feel his breath against my skin. I should be repelled, my skin is so sensitive and I usually can barely tolerate proximity to it. I am unable to completely control the physical response of my body, and in the past the response has been overwhelmingly negative. I simply do not like having people too near to me. As in everything so far in our friendship, John is the exception. And Mrs Hudson so course. Although she had never held my hand like this. I wouldn’t allow it now. Only John.

Then John does something even more… Unexpected. He raises my hand to his mouth and lightly presses his lips to the back of it. It sends sparks shooting through my body, just this one light brush of his lips on my skin and I feel as though I’m being electrocuted. Interesting. Do it again John. Please. Now I have felt that, I want more. Do it again. I urge him silently.

He smiles and does it again. I feel his smile on my skin. I feel the sparks again. I am warm under my skin, my ears are hot, my face is hot. I am blushing. Oh God. I am blushing.

I gather my wits enough to try and pull my hand away but it won’t move. It has set up camp in John’s hand and refuses to budge. Damn. I demand it move. It ignores me.

John lowers my hand, still entwined in his and brings his other hand to my hot face. Again, sparks at the touch of his skin to mine. He’s still smiling. I’m still processing.

He leans up and touches his lips to mine.  
Oh. Oh. Oh God.

Just softly, gently, all too briefly. He pulls back and still smiles. We’re standing in the bathroom, hands locked together, mine tightening in his. I won’t let go now. Can’t, even if I wanted to.

More. I need more. Do it again John. Do it again. Please.

“Of course, Sherlock.”

Might’ve been speaking out loud again. I don’t think it matters though. As long as John keeps kissing me.

He does.


	2. A Shitty Day

It’s been a shitty day.

It started with His Majesty clattering about in the kitchen at 3am this morning. He knows I was out with Greg last night, not my best idea on a school night. He knew I had to get up early for the surgery this morning, I was covering for Stan today (his daughter is visiting from Oz, he’s been trying to get the time off for months. Sarah finally called me in at the last minute. It was… Awkward. Need the money though. Really need the money. I hate sponging.).

Anyway, his nibs was downstairs in the middle of the night doing something awful involving string, acidic compounds and some Heineken bottles. Apparently it produced unexpected results. Breaking glass is not a pleasant alarm, I can tell you. I dived out of bed, knowing it was the mad scientist I live with making the racket, all ready to give him a bollocking, but when I got into the kitchen he just looked at me from under that ridiculous rats nest of hair (it’s grown a bit too long, it falls into his eyes more when it’s like that. He was leaning forward over the glass-covered table, with hair flopping over his face. He looks adorable peeking at me through his hair, like a some breed of genetically superior, hyper-intelligent spaniel), and I just sighed inside of yelling at him. I almost made a sleepy gag about bottles on the wall but I knew it’d fall on deaf ears. It’d have been worth it though, even just for that “John don’t be obtuse why do normal people insist on trying to engage me in their idiocy what is the world coming to” look he gets.

Anyway. I reminded him, a bit more firmly than I really intended to on reflection, that some of us poor humans have to sleep when they got in only half an hour ago, they know they’ll have a stinking hangover and they have an 8am surgery shift. He just nodded, waved a hand at me and went back to examining the exploded bottles. At least he had goggles on. And as far as I could tell there wasn’t any glass embedded in the kitchen table, or walls, or him. Idiot. I went back upstairs but of course barely got back to sleep. Then the alarm went off (no breaking glass this time, though).

So that’s how the day started. And it just went downhill from there. I dozed off between patients at lunchtime. Sarah was unimpressed. She banged the files around the room before flouncing out. Felt a little bit guilty, but she’s desperate for cover, and I’m desperate for cash. She only calls when she absolutely has to and I only go in when I absolutely have to. We’ve done a lot better at getting good cases through the blog but it only goes so far when Sherlock “I’m not leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, we agreed John” Holmes won’t get off his arse for paying jobs.

So after a day of sniffles, wailing children with colds, old folk with creaky joints and (not) mysterious ailments I was ready to just go home, collapse onto my surprisingly still comfy chair by the fire, maybe have a takeaway and a beer, listen to my incredible flat mate slag off the telly, or play his violin, or just sit together while I read and he thinks.  
Sounds dull, as himself would say. But actually I really enjoy just spending time in the same room as him. It’s a bit problematic, really. I notice things about him more frequently now. I dunno if that’s him rubbing off on me, or if I’m just more aware of things. It’s a challenge though, not to let it show on my face or in my hands or my bloody socks or something. Where the world’s most observant man can see it. Can see how fond of him I am.

I know, I know. He doesn’t feel things that way. I know it’s hopeless, he’ll never see me as anything more than his companion, there to “conduct light” for him by being slightly less dense than the rat of the British population, and to occasionally shoot the less cautious criminals who threaten him.

But sometimes. Sometimes I wonder. I let my thoughts go to that dangerous place, that slippery slope. Where I could be more to him. More than just a companion, or a friend.

I long to be more, but I’m a realistic kind of bloke. I know it won’t happen. He is definitely less abrasive now, that’s true. He’s… I dunno. More open? Softer? More… I dunno. I’ve caught his eye a couple of times and I could’ve sworn there was something in them that I hadn’t noticed before… Before. I occasionally indulge myself that it’s affection for me, maybe even love.

I can admit it to you, you’re not going to care. Or worse, tell him about it. I know I love him. Have for a long time. But he doesn’t feel things that way.

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked again.

It’s been a shitty day. Now I’m walking home in the pissing rain (forgot to load my Oyster card, got nothing to load it with according to the cash machine) and I’m angry. I knew it was a long shot, asking him to bank that cheque from the Mackenzie case. Did he bloody do it? Course not. Stupid, Watson. He’s probably spent the day farting about with his glass bottles and annoying Greg. Well good. I hope Greg was as hungover as me this morning. Lucky fucker didn’t have to work though, and he doesn’t (love) live with a six-foot three year-old with a penchant for acid and corpses.

I wouldn’t change him, no. What the fuck for? He may be a twat but he’s unique, and incredible, and gorgeous, and…. Yeah, ok. Bit much. Fuck it, I don’t care. Already admitted I love him. What’s the worst that could happen?

Well yeah, but his brother isn’t nearly as scary as he likes to think he is. Pompous git. With his posh suits and bloody umbrellas. His way of caring for Sherlock is bloody creepy sometimes. He means well though, I wish his baby brother would see that sometimes. He’s still an interfering twat, right enough.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic again. Gotta watch that.

Yeah, so I’m marching home now in a fug of bloody annoyed because my day was shitty, I’m pining for my unattainable flatmate, public transport sucks but it’s better than walking, and it’s pissing rain. I think I’m justified in my annoyance.

I get to the big black door and shake off the worst of the rain in the hallway. It’s quiet upstairs on our flat. That could mean he’s gone out, he’s thinking on the sofa, or something’s about to explode. At the moment it’s probably me that’ll explode.

I trudge upstairs, all I’m thinking of is dry feet and hot tea. I strip off my sodden coat, kick off my shoes and push open the door with mild trepidation.

The flat is cosy, Sherlock’s got a fire going. It’s lovely. The kitchen is empty of mad genius and is almost clean. There’s still chemistry shit all over the table but at least nothing’s leaking or smelling foul. So he cleaned up the Heineken experiment then. That’s good, he’s occasionally accidentally thoughtful. Adorable git.

He’s on the sofa, lying stretched out and looking gorgeous. Typical. All I want is to reach out and run my hands through that daft hair, kiss him softly and lift his (freezing) bare feet into my lap. I restrain myself, he’s obviously in the mind palace somewhere so fortunately he won’t have seen all that on my face.

I go to head into the kitchen to put the kettle on when I spot the mug inn the table beside my chair. There a cardboard box on the chair too, and a towel hanging over the back of it.

Oh Sherlock, I say under my breath.

“John.”

Shit. He heard that? How the… Fuck, I give up.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” I say, picking up the towel and scrubbing my soggy hair. He hums. I lift the box off the chair and sit down. The box is weirdly heavy, for its size.

“What’s in this box?” I ask.

Sherlock opens his eyes. He looks at me for a little too long. As he always does. I don’t mind though. His eyes are wonderful to look back at. He gets up, collects his wallet from his coat pocket and calls to me over his shoulder as he heads to the door.

“Solved a case for some thriller writer. He gave me a cheque, obviously, but also signed copies of his books. I won’t read them, boring dreck, but I thought you might like them. Food is at the door. I’ll get it.”

I’m floored. What the fuck. He not only got a fire going, got me a towel, got me food, but he kept hold of a box of books that were of no interest to him. For me.

He’s disappeared downstairs to get the food. I can forgive the Mackenzie cheque, I think. I’m still sitting there in the chair, staring down at the box of books, towel in hand, when he comes back upstairs.

“John?”

It’s a question this time. He says my name so many different ways. I never get tired of hearing his voice. It’s as incredible as he is, as changeable.

I don’t know I’m going to do it until I’m standing right in front of him, my hands either side of his face. He looks terrified, but I can see a wild hope flash across his face too. So I take the chance. Fuck it.

I kiss him. Lightly. Giving him plenty of time to pull away, dismiss me. He doesn’t. He takes a sharp breath, inhaling from my mouth. I’m feeling a bit too brave now, I slip my tongue in between his lips when they part. He gasps again and it’s a fantastic sound.

He’s rigid, still holding the bags of takeaway. Finally he drops the bags to land at our feet and he melts into me. Actually melts. His arms come around me and I move a hand to his slender waist. He’s trembling, just a little. It’s easily the best thing I’ve ever felt, kissing him like this.

I pull away eventually, albeit reluctantly. I open my eyes, his are still closed. He leans forward, rests his forehead against mine.

Why the fuck did I wait so long to do this? It’s perfect, he’s perfect. 

He’s breathing a bit heavily but I’m just so happy. Joyful, I almost laugh but I stop myself. Don’t want him getting the wrong idea.

“John.”

He breathes my name this time. My turn to melt. I kiss him again, and again, and again. Takeaway’s going cold, so’s my cuppa. I don’t give a flying fuck.

It was a shitty day. Now it’s not. If all my shitty days can end in Sherlock’s arms, I’m okay with that.


	3. A love letter, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John found this note under his pillow one morning. He still has no idea how Sherlock put it there without waking him.

Dear John, 

There is such beauty in imperfection. 

You told me once that you don’t find it easy, this sort of thing. As you know, I prefer to text. For all I wish to express here however, I felt a text insufficient. I confess, your discomfort with emotional displays is something I share. For most of my life, sentiment has been the enemy, something to scorn and avoid at all costs. Simple chemistry, so very destructive. 

Except I find I have been deceived. Quite thoroughly, in fact. This is just one of the many things you have taught me. That sentiment is not to be abhorred, is not a weakness, but instead can be a source of great strength. 

Of course, this does not preclude its being supremely annoying at times, and frustratingly difficult to navigate. I endeavour to do my best for you, John, but I am aware of my failings. I am selfish, petulant, cutting, abrasive, arrogant, married to my Work (still). Not, I have it on good authority, qualities one usually seeks in their partner. 

But this is where the theory falls apart. Because to every rule there is an exception. You, John, are the exception. A wonderful paradox of soft manners and apparent normality, with a layer of steel and danger hidden beneath. 

Ordinary people do not see it John, how much you are not ordinary. Clearly they are idiots. Another first for me, finding that for once I am glad of their ignorance. Glad that they do not see how simply and endlessly fascinating you are. Glad that they cannot take you from me, make you ordinary, like them. 

It is not healthy, I am sure, to feel as though I would be utterly purposeless,formless, rudderless, without you. This is not meant to guilt you into anything, John, please do not misunderstand. I am merely demonstrating how central to all of my functions you have become. Too dependant, your therapist would tell us. Glad you fired her. She has it wrong. Idiot. 

“Too dependant” implies that there is a second option, another way to do this. Wrong. For me, there is no other way. Go big or go home, I believe the popular vernacular phrase to be. (How tasteless.) 

My sentiment stands though. I am barely sufficient as I am, attempting to perform my duties as your partner to the best of my ability. I endeavour always to do my very best for you, John. You deserve nothing less, and if I can in any way come to deserve you I shall die content. You told me that I don’t do things by halves. How right you are. I know no other way to be, I must devote all of my energy, superior intellect and powerful focus to any task I choose to undertake. And you are my greatest puzzle. 

As I lie here beside you, listening to you breathing softly in sleep, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest, I recall the journey we took to arrive here. Here, in our bed, close. Proximity, John. Always near to you, no matter my physical location. 

To say that we were faced with many challenges on our journey would, I think, do us a disservice. It is only through adversity that we triumph. That we are here now is testament not only to the fathomless depths of your heart but also to your strength in the face of trial and test. I will not speak here of the past; suffice to say you know to what I refer. I will instead say only that I am here now. And here I will always be. 

You are beautiful, John. I find I am compelled to ensure you are aware of this fact, as I watch you slumber. Though you have frequently told me that you find me beautiful I do not believe I have yet returned the words. It is irrefutable, of course. You are beautiful, John. 

I digress. Slightly. 

As I said, there is such beauty in imperfection. You and I, John, many would say are imperfect. For once they are entirely correct. But it is there that they see, but do not observe. We are indeed imperfect. A pair that should not match. Should not fit together so neatly. And yet, in our imperfection, we complement each other. We fulfil each other. We are a matching set, John. Just the two of us against the rest of the world. 

This is reflected, manifested, in our rings. If only they would observe, John, it would all become so clear. I am holding my ring up to the light now, examining the flecks, nicks, marks, in the band. I know yours has these also. Unique to you, to our life together. A symbol, filled with history only you and I can interpret. Ordinary people would clean, repair, replace, try to return a blemished item to its original state, unseeing of the grace inherent in the damage. 

See, John? Beauty in imperfection. 

I am going to leave this for you to find now. I hope this missive effectively conveys the depth of my regard for you. Although perhaps it would pay to take our erstwhile landlady’s advice at the end here, just this once, and “be bloody clear and stop pontificating, Sherlock! Silly boy.” Ahem. 

I am watching your face, relaxed and open as you sleep. Should this be my last sight in life, I will gladly go into the darkness and greet oblivion with a smile. You are all I will ever need and I am so very deeply and wholly in love with you. 

I am eternally yours, John. 

Imperfect, yes. 

And yours. 

Sherlock


	4. A love letter, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John writes back to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds this tucked underneath his microscope. It's in an envelope, unaddressed, but he knows who it's from. John is still asleep in the bedroom, so Sherlock curls himself up in John's chair (he likes the scent of John in the fabric), opens it carefully and begins to read.

Dear Sherlock,

I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. But having read what you'd written, I couldn't not reply somehow. So. Here goes. 

I knew from that first day. It's so bloody cliched, but as you once said, I am a romantic. As soon as I walked into that lab, I knew. 

Didn't get off to a great start, that first time sitting at that table in Angelo's. I'm cringing now just thinking about my clumsy attempt to feel you out, as it were (had to wait a while but fuck, properly feeling you was worth it, if you know what I mean...).

Anyway. Sorry. What I was trying to say was I was already pretty interested but you shut me down, more kindly than I probably gave you credit for at the time. Still, you were and are so incredible I couldn't have walked away if I tried. You're a tit sometimes, more often than than you probably realise, but the night with the cabbie? I dunno, I just felt I had to make sure you were alright, even though we'd only just met. It's funny in a way, it didn't occur to me not to. Seems we just... I dunno. 

That's the thing though. For so long, we just.... And then you left. I can say it now, if only on paper, but after you'd gone was a dark, dark time for me. I don't want to rehash the past here; after all this time it's still painful. But you came back. 

God, Sherlock, you came back. And when we finally got our shit together (how did we take so fucking long? We're such idiots), it was perfect. Don't shake your head, it really fucking was. For me, definitely, and no matter what you say I know it was for you too. So there. Ha. 

See, you probably know this, but you are perfect to me, Sherlock. I was watching you earlier, thinking this exact thought. You'd finished the case, it'd been a long one, and you were just about to crash. Normally you'd be all over the place, buzzing with excitement, but this case was a pretty draining one. I managed to get some food in you, then you collapsed onto me on the sofa, your head in my lap. You were out like a light and I just sat there, stroking your hair and watching you sleep. You're so beautiful, Sherlock, I should tell you more often. You wriggled into my hand as I petted your head by the way, don't think I don't know just how much you adore having your head petted. You might not admit it, but you were starved of touch and affection before. It's my honour and my privilege to touch you and show you affection. I hope you know that. 

I'm so lucky, Sherlock, to have you. And to have you in this way. I know it's been difficult for both of us, to let the other one in, but I think we finally have. So completely, and it's terrifying and it's amazing and it's everything I could ever want or need. 

I love you, Sherlock, more than I ever thought myself capable of. Deeply, wholly, so much it feels like I'm consumed by it sometimes, I love you. And I have the rest of our lives to keep telling you and showing you and making sure you know how true this is. And that's exactly what I intend to do. 

I love you.   
John


	5. A Desperate Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Fleur (inspired by this tumblr post: http://fleurdelis221b.tumblr.com/post/120641252393/lynneyginnyjoan-benedictsbitch

He's back. He came back. 

He strides back into my life as if he'd never left, as if he'd never stood on a roof and broken my heart. And God it's so good to have him standing there in front of me, looking exactly as he does in my warmest memories. But God it hurts too. It hurts that he didn't trust me enough to know that I would always stand by him. It hurts that he left me behind. 

I'm angry. I'm furious. How dare he? How dare he put me through that, how could he think I would just move on, that it wouldn't nearly kill me as well? Because it did, it damn near killed me to lose him. 

My fists clench at my sides and I can feel my teeth scraping together as my jaw works itself. The flinch in his eyes at what's showing through my expression is slight, but it's there and I am grimly satisfied. 

I'm restraining myself but it's an enormous struggle. I want to hit him, punch him straight in that imperious, arrogant, gorgeous face. I'm breathing heavily and just standing in my flat staring at my supposedly dead flatmate. He's watching me carefully, that concentration he always wore (wears) sweeping over me as he takes in the details: my restless hands, my rigid posture, my hard expression. Can he see behind that, I fleetingly wonder? Can he see the joy I feel in knowing he isn't gone, the spark of shocked elation I feel that he is right here again? The love I have for him, this insane, desperate yearning I have to just be close to him, to pull him to me, to wrap my arms around him and just hold him? This urgent desire; if his fall didn't kill me, the power of my love for him just might. 

He takes a tentative step forward, begins to raise his hand towards me, drops it again. His voice is soft when he says my name. 

"John."

"Don't. Just don't."

He steps back, lifts his chin almost in defiance. His face is blank now, any emotion he might've felt secretly hidden away behind that cold mask of indifference he wears (wore). For some reason this infuriates me even more. He's hiding from me again, not letting me in, refusing to show me what I know to be true. That he does feel things, he's not a machine. 

(That thought cuts me to the depths. The last thing I said to his face. Except now he's back.) 

"Two years, Sherlock," I grit out. "Two fucking years."

His mask wavers just a little but he immediately schools himself once more. 

"It was necessary," he says simply. As if that's all that's needed. Oh right, of course! Silly John, it was necessary! 

"Necessary? Oh well, ok then," I snap, and now the thread is torn and I can't stop it pouring out. 

"Two fucking years, you let me grieve! How could you do that, Sherlock? You know it almost killed me, you realise that? You left, you fucking died, and it tore me open. So many times, I thought, if he'd only known that I'd have stood by him, maybe he wouldn't have...

But then you pop back up like a fucking daisy, right as rain, telling me it was necessary. Sure, right, two years of... Of just..... I...."

I trail off, suddenly drained. I close my eyes and try to get the storm inside me to calm. I take a couple of deep breaths, use the techniques I was taught to regain control. I hate that he can have this effect on me, that he can so easily throw me into such turmoil, but I crave it too. I crave him, and everything he brings with him. And he just stands there, bloody knowing what this does to me, and he still, still won't fucking let me in. 

I open my eyes and meet his. And sure enough, there's the indifference. The aloofness. I'm never going to be enough for him, the realisation crushes into me. He's always going to be just out of reach, just beyond my grasp, never showing anything to me. I'm so lost, with him and without him. 

I must've let my despair and my desire bleed into my gaze, just a little. There's a tiny flicker in his eyes but that's it. And just like that, I'm incandescent with rage again. 

"Can I just fucking be good enough to make you actually feel something?!" I scream at him. I turn away and drop into my chair, my head in my hands. 

"You are perfect and you make me feel alive."

My head snaps up at the sound of his voice. If he was struggling not to show anything on his face before, he's completely lost the battle now. It's breathtaking, his transformation. His eyes are bright and angry, he's breathing heavily, he's gripping the edges of his coat in his hands and I'm sure he has no idea he's doing it. 

He laughs bitterly under his breath. He looks away, his knuckles have turned white where he's holding onto his coat. 

"You kept me alive, John. In those two years... Yes, it was necessary. Because you are necessary and I couldn't..."

He stops, seems to gather himself and before I know I'm doing it I'm out of my chair pulling him into my body as I throw my arms around him. He stiffens and seems like he's going to try to draw away, but I don't let him, I tighten my hold. 

"Don't do that," I mumble into his chest, "Don't pull away, please," I'm pleading into him and I don't care. If this is all I can ever have, this awkward as arse hug, I'm fucking taking it. 

He stops trying to move away and stands there rigid, me still wrapped around him. We stand like that for a few moments and I'm about to give up and release him when it feels like something in him snaps. I can feel the exact moment he lets it go, and his arms come around me, his head bowing to rest on my shoulder. He melts into me, his body fitting into mine like that's where it was always meant to be. It's glorious, it's wonderful, I never want to let him go. 

"John," he breathes into my shoulder. His voice is unsteady, he's quivering in my arms. I'm overwhelmed, heart racing, trembling myself as I try to hold back the hot prickles in my eyes. 

I pull back and let up just enough to see him, taking his head in my hands and easing his face up from where it's buried in my shoulder. He has closed his eyes, his lips parted. A look of anguish flashes across his face and he starts moving away again. He's misinterpreting my intentions and I am putting a stop to it. Right fucking now. 

I tilt his head slightly, lean in and softly press my lips to his. Just a light, brief kiss. I pull back and look at him. Our arms are still clutched around one another. 

His eyes are still closed but when he opens them the pain and longing and love I see there sears itself into me. I am blinded by it and I am thankful. 

He bites his lower lip and looks like he is about to speak, to say something and draw away from me. Again. Fucking again! Nope, not this time and never again. I know exactly what I'm doing and if he wants this too, well. We are this, then. I speak first. 

"Sherlock, if this is what you want, just say yes. Say yes, I'm yours. I.... Say yes, Sherlock, please God, say yes," I whisper. 

He inhales sharply and I'm terrified. My heart is thundering in my chest, I feel like I'm about to shatter into a million pieces. He answers me so quietly, so softly, and it's the beginning and the end and the all and him. He's my best friend, my heart, my mind, my soul, my everything. 

"Yes," he says. And as I kiss him again I pour all the love, tenderness, affection I can into it, letting him feel it all. He does the same, and God it's so much. So much. And it's perfect.


	6. How did we get here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recalls and recounts his and Sherlock's first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I could only resist getting smutty up to now, hence the updated rating. Whoops.

How did we get here? Well, it's quite simple really. We're here because you were wearing that fucking shirt. That smooth, tight material stretched across your goddamn chest, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, as you bent over the microscope on the kitchen table. And well, I just couldn't take it any longer. 

I glanced up from my paper and saw you. You were gazing intently into whatever the hell it was you were experimenting on that day, your eyes glowing under the dull kitchen lights, your lips parted... Just so. I'd been so desperate to taste you, still am in fact. Always am, come to think of it. 

Hmm, lovely. Where was I? Oh yeah. 

You looked... You looked incredible. You always look incredible to me, whether you're wearing that fucking shirt, a thin bed sheet, or (my favourite) absolutely fuck all, you're a masterpiece. Don't pull that face, you bloody are. And I just couldn't stand it any more, not knowing how you taste, not knowing how you'd sound when I touched your bare skin, not knowing what you feel like coming apart beneath my hands and lips and tongue.

I had to kiss you, right then, I just had to. I stood up and I walked over. You looked up from your slide with that adorable puzzled expression, yeah that's the one! You are adorable sometimes, sorry to say it but it's true. Oh, come on, I like it! You might even say... I adore it! 

Ok, ok, I'll stop! It's true though, and I do adore it. Sorry. I'll really stop now, just come back to bed Sherlock. Please?

Although, this is a rather lovely view, I must say. If you wanted to, you could stay standing there a bit longer? You look a bit cold though love, c'mon, back under the covers. There, better? Mmm, I think so. 

So, I got up, you looked up, and I know you saw it. Saw it in my face, right then. I gave up trying to hide it, I just figured I'd take the risk and what would be, would be. 

So I took your face in my hands, I heard you murmur my name, i felt you tremble, and I kissed you. Just lightly, just for a moment. And God, it was perfect. I knew I'd never kiss anyone else ever again, after that. Only you. 

I pulled back to see if you were ok, and I'm so glad I did because what I saw made me fall for you even more deeply. How is it possible, Sherlock, that you still do that to me? I'll just, I dunno, be pottering about or something, or you'll be tearing strips off Anderson again, or you'll be reading in your chair, or playing me some music, and I just.... I fall all over again. Only harder, every single bloody time. It hits me that you're mine, that you promised you'd always be mine, that I'm yours and I promised the same. I love you so, so much, you know? Yeah, I know you know. Hmm. Yes, I am smiling and I will continue smiling of it's alright with you? It is? Good, I was gonna anyway. 

Right, so. I kissed you. I pulled back. I looked at you. Your face was a bit flushed, your eyes still closed, your lips barely parted, and you raised your hand to touch your mouth as if you could still feel me there. Oh. Yeah, sorry. Thinking about it and talking about it have that... Ahem. Effect. You, you git, you have that effect. Let me finish the story though. I like telling it. 

You said my name then. Just murmured it in that sinful bloody voice of yours, just my name. I tried to steady myself, get my shit together somehow in case I'd majorly fucked up, and I asked you if you were ok. You opened your eyes then and I felt it. You were finally showing me everything, everything we'd both been hiding from each other, running away from, terrified of, whatever. And you touched my cheek, and I pulled you in close and you said "Yes." That's all. Just "Yes."

I let go then, I let it all go and all flood through me and into you. I think you realised at that point, just how much we'd been concealing, and you gave it back as fiercely as you took it in. So did I, pouring everything I felt, all the love I have for you, into that kiss. It was blinding and searing and messy and desperate and perfect. 

We broke apart, breathing heavily, only to stumble into the bedroom, tearing at each other's clothes and mouths and skin. That first time, I didn't even stop to see you, to properly see you and all your beauty. You are beautiful, Sherlock. I know I say it a lot so it's probably losing its meaning, but that doesn't make it any less true. 

I was just so... Gagging to get my hands on you. You seemed to feel the same way, pawing and rubbing and grinding up against me. We were both groaning, loudly I imagine, God knows what Mrs H could hear. Yeah, I think she's gotten used to it by now, haha!

Sorry love, spoiled it a bit by getting sidetracked! Anyway. I... Oh. Um, yeah. You can touch me anytime, anywhere you like, love. You know that. Might make telling the story a bit ... Ah! Ah.... A bit difficult though. 

So there we were, on our way to naked together for the first time and.... Oh god Sherlock, that's good! No, it's ok... I can... I can manage, I'll make it to the end! 

We just had to have each other, I think, that first time. The feel of you in my hand though, it was more amazing than even I'd imagined. Ah! Oh fuck... I loved it, I wanted to do everything... Oh, oh! All at once and then all over again.... Oh fuck, Sherlock.... but neither of us could have lasted that long! 

You.... You... Ca.... You came first.... Ah! Like that, fuck yes! God, it was so fucking hot! Tipped me riiii.... Ah, fuck! Right over! Yes, there, like that, oh, like that, fuck Sherlock! Fuck, I'm...... Ah! Ah!

Aaah... Yeah, hmmm. Oh god. What? Oh, nearly forgot the best bit! We lay there, all sticky, bit like I am now actually, and we wrapped around each other and just lay there quietly for a moment. Then I said it, and you smiled that gorgeous smile you have, the one that makes me feel like you're only looking at me and nothing else, only thinking about me, and us and what we mean to each other. Yeah, that's the one. And you told me you love me too. And that's how we got here. All because of that fucking wonderful purple shirt. 

Now then. My turn. Roll over, love. Yes, just like that. 

Perfect.


	7. An Interesting Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRAIN PORN. Seriously, that's all this is - fluffy train porn. *shrugs*

The case had wrapped up late, as in late evening late. John was exhausted, having run around madly after an effervescent Sherlock for the past three days straight. He'd thought after all that time in the Army he'd still be able to manage a couple of sleepless nights on the trot. Apparently not, he reluctantly admitted to himself, raising a hand to stifle an enormous yawn. Sherlock glanced at him and almost seemed annoyed when he too suddenly had to smother his gaping mouth. 

They were waiting for the last train back to their hotel, then could get another train down to London in the morning. John had been glad of the distraction of the case and the chance to spend some time in the countryside but he was definitely ready to get back to Baker Street and his own bed now. 

The train finally arrived and they trudged into the empty carriage. Settling himself into a window seat and propping his head against the window, John was startled wide awake when Sherlock slid in next to him. He looked up sharply and opened his mouth to ask why, given the plethora of empty spaces, Sherlock felt it necessary to wedge his long frame in beside John, but Sherlock already had his hands steepled in front of his face, elbows resting on the table, lost in thought. John sighed and tried to find a comfortable way to doze without embarrassing himself. 

He was acutely aware of Sherlock's thigh pressed up to his, the heat of his body radiating into John's. The case has provided a welcome distraction both for the restless detective and John's wayward, vastly inappropriate thoughts about his flatmate. More and more lately, John had been made painfully aware of the fact that he was falling in love with the most unattainable man in the world. Sometimes Sherlock looked at him and John was convinced he could see every thought, every soppy daydream, every dirty fantasy John had indulged in. It was both thrilling and crushing at the same time, wondering if Sherlock genuinely could see and was being surprisingly tactful. Then of course, it was just as likely that the daft git had absolutely no idea. Not his area, after all. And then, he goes and squishes himself in right next to John in a deserted late night train. Mixed messages much, John mused to himself wryly. 

John focused his attention away from his infuriatingly lovely flatmate and strained to see past his reflection in the window. He wriggled a bit in the seat to get comfy, then let his eyes drift closed and fell into a gentle doze. 

He woke abruptly some time later to find, to his horror, that he'd leant away from the window and was resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. With every inhale he could smell the thick wool coat, the gentle spice of Sherlock's stupidly expensive hair products, and beneath, the clean, smoky, delightful scent of Sherlock himself. John tried not to jerk away suddenly and thus draw attention to the fact that he had been pretty much snuggling into Sherlock, when he noticed that Sherlock had also drifted into sleep. His curls were tickling John's face and his breathing was soft and even. 

John was torn, he desperately wanted to shut his eyes again and fall back asleep, taking in deep breaths of that intoxicating mixture of scents. But he was all too wary of what might happen when they woke up, how awkward it could be, for both of them. He prevaricated helplessly, still leaning on Sherlock's snoozing body.

"Mm, John." 

Sherlock's voice was sinfully low, a breathy rumble in his throat, and he shifted a little, snuffling at John's hair. What the fuck?! He was obviously still asleep, that's all, John thought madly. He's just mumbling deductions or something at me in his dreams, he decided, choosing to ignore the heat pooling in his groin at the sound of Sherlock moaning softly under his breath. Nothing to panic about, Watson. 

Sherlock's right hand dropped into John's thigh, rubbing gently before moving to rest lightly over his now-aching groin. Shit. Something to panic about now! 

John tried to sit up a bit and dislodge his friend's elegant palm from his rapidly thickening cock. As he moved Sherlock's grip momentarily tightened and John let out a loud gasp. Sherlock began stroking him through his jeans, his hand just moving up and down over John's erection. Fuck. Definitely time to panic! 

John tried again to carefully move away but this just caused more excruciatingly arousing squeezing and a grumbling moan from the still-sleeping Sherlock. John stared at what little he could see of his friend and the object of his many sexual fantasies. Was he actually asleep, or is he playing some kind of twisted trick, experimenting on John's rate of arousal or something?! The thought that Sherlock could be so calculating and cold tamped down on the pressure in John's crotch somewhat. He could feel anger beginning to bubble up under his skin. If Sherlock had deduced John's feelings and was just dicking about, so to speak, that was bloody unfair and horrid. 

Well. Two could play that game then. Let's just see how married to his work the consulting detective (only one in the world, invented the job, pompous twat) really is?

John sighed a touch theatrically and shifts his body in the small space so he was pressed even closer. Sherlock hummed pleasantly, his hand stopped moving and he settled himself against John once more. John smiled to himself and let his hand wander over to lay on Sherlock's leg, a light pressure but one he would feel even as he dozed.

The reaction was instantaneous and John was immensely satisfied at the moan of pleasure that escaped Sherlock's throat. Feelings emboldened, he dragged his hand up along Sherlock's leg and rubbed at the zip of his posh suit trousers. Sherlock inhaled sharply, and for a second John panicked that he'd been caught out, but then Sherlock moaned his name again and relaxed into his touch. John resumed stroking and rubbing as he felt Sherlock getting hard. Incredibly hard, incredibly quickly.

Marvellous, thought John smugly. In that case...

He stroked a little faster and harder, and now he was sure Sherlock would wake. Mercifully he stayed asleep, his mouth dropping open, breathing rapidly and moaning more and more loudly. John was relishing this, his own neglected cock pressing uncomfortably into his jeans. 

Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped open and he jerked his head from where it had been resting against John's. He met John's eyes with a wild expression on his face, wonder, embarrassment, lust and panic warring for supremacy. 

"John...." he breathed. John merely grinned at him, slowing his movements as he waited for whatever would come next. Thinking he'd very much like it if Sherlock came next, in his fancy trousers, right there on the train. 

John raised an eyebrow in question, then realised Sherlock was gaping down at John's hand on his crotch. Leaning in to nose at those exquisitely soft curls, John placed his lips right next to Sherlock's ear. 

"Yes, that's all you need to say Sherlock," he whispered. 

Sherlock gasped and, worrying at his lower lip, nodded once. That was all John wanted, and he took up the fantastic task of pleasuring Sherlock with gusto.

It wasn't going to take much longer, he was delighted to see. Sherlock was panting, biting his lip to hold back the sounds he seemed to have very little control over. 

"Fuck, Sherlock," John mumbled, mouth pressing kisses into Sherlock's hair. " You're so fucking gorgeous, you're brilliant and so sensitive..." 

Sherlock's whole body stiffened and he cries out softly as he started to come, orgasming in his trousers as John stroked him through it. He gradually stopped shaking and sat there, eyes closed, leaning on John. 

John took a deep breath, withdrew his hand and adjusted himself. Sherlock eventually lifted his head and stared in open amazement at his blogger. His eyes dropped to the sizeable bulge in John's jeans, and when he looked back up to his face it was all John could do not to come in his own pants right then. Sherlock's mouth was watering and his eyes were full of fierce desire, despite having just had an orgasm not minutes before. He tilted his head, wordlessly asking permission to touch as he reached out a hand uncertainly. 

"God, please," John mumbled, and it took only a few strokes of those long fingers on him before he too was overwhelmed by his climax. 

They sat there, each panting, unsure, for a few minutes. Then, they both looked up, catching the other's eyes and immediately collapsing into soft giggles. 

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John laughed. Sherlock smiled at him, a genuine smile which made his eyes glow warmly. 

"Bit uncomfortable, but worth it," he said softly. John felt his heart swell with affection and a renewed desire for this sleepy idiot beside him. 

"Yeah," he agreed, "definitely worth the crusty pants."

They fell into giggles again and John took a chance, lifting Sherlock's hand into his. They leaned against each other once more, staying that way until the end of the line.


	8. Le lapin de l'amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock. Bunnies. Ridiculously cutesy smutty fluff.

The day passes fairly quickly after all. John is in his way home now, thinking about food and a fire in the hearth, his book open in his lap while he listens to Sherlock play his violin. It's a soothing, peaceful picture in John's head but he knows that the reality could be quite different. He has no idea what will be happening in his flat when he gets home and it's thrilling. 

What's also thrilling (in a completely terrifying way) is that his relationship with Sherlock has slowly, gradually, carefully progressed beyond best friends. By anyone else's standards they're moving at a bloody glacial pace, they haven't even kissed yet, but they've both acknowledged in their way that this "more" between them has always been there. It was always going to happen, they just took a while and a fuckton of heartbreak to get to this point. No sense rushing now, they're both enjoying the gentle development. A hand resting now lightly on the small of Sherlock's back as he cooked breakfast this morning. John's fingers playing with Sherlock's hair as he lies with his head on John's lap in the sofa, thinking. A long arm across John's chest and a nose full of curls as they get comfy and cosy in their now shared bed. 

John would be happy just with this, having Sherlock beside him, being able to touch him and see the surprised joy flash in Sherlock's eyes as he feels John close to him. He still seems a little unsure, as if he can't trust himself to take full advantage of John's affection in case it's ripped away from him. John has known for a long time just how deeply Sherlock feels, just how incredible the strength of his love is. John wants Sherlock to know that his love is returned just as much; the unspoken words hang heavy on John's tongue and in his throat, urgently pressing to escape and wrap themselves around Sherlock's uncertainty, dissolving it entirely. Every time he catches Sherlock looking at him with undisguised fondness and no small amount of wonder that John's still here and still wants this, John's heart cracks just a little. 

John would be happy to continue as they are for the rest of their lives, but he can't deny he misses the close physical connection sex brings for him. He'd never push Sherlock and has never said anything about what he thinks about in the shower sometimes, but the powerful desire to give pleasure in such an intimate way lurks just beneath the surface. At times he can't help but let it show on his face, he's sure Sherlock knows it's there and is just waiting for John to let it out. Although he desperately wants Sherlock, wants to stroke him and taste him and take him, John won't ever do so unless Sherlock agrees. 

John's thinking about all of this as he climbs the stairs to their home. There's some scratching going on behind the door, like little feet on the hardwood floor. What is Sherlock up to? This morning he was engrossed in some research paper he'd found, something to do with gene splicing maybe? John thinks he's had quite enough of scientists messing about with genetic codes after the Hound case, but Sherlock's curiosity extends beyond imaginary monstrous canines, apparently. When John asked him over coffee that morning what he had planned for the day, Sherlock had hummed noncommittally. What horrors await John behind the door now?

John steps into the flat just as Sherlock yelps and dives across the kitchen to slam the door closed. He smiles shyly at John in greeting, then dashes back into the kitchen to whatever experiment he's working on. John grins to himself and hangs up his coat before heading into the kitchen to join him. 

"So what are you.... What the hell?!"

The kitchen is full of rabbits. Various sizes and colours, and apparently in varying states of narcolepsy if the three dozing happily in the table are representative of what Sherlock is up to. 

"I was intrigued by the genetic enhancement of Bluebell," Sherlock explains matter-of-factly, gesturing to the rabbits all around them. "I'm testing intelligence and learning capacities in several breeds."

John nods, stooping to pick up the small chocolate brown fluffball investigating his shoes. 

"Although the ones that got into Mrs Hudson's soothers already have adequately proven their stupidity," says Sherlock, frowning sternly at the three sleeping on the table. 

John laughs and hands the fluffball in his arms to the bizarre man he loves. 

"Right, of course," he says, chuckling. "Well, I'm going to take a shower before dinner. When I come out of the bathroom Sherlock I want to see all these, er, specimens, back in their hutches." 

Sherlock waves a hand lazily, already focused on trying to encourage the rabbit he took from John to hop in a particular direction across the worktops. 

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Between you and Flopsy over there, the cuteness in here is already at dangerously high levels."

Sherlock snorts and pulls a face before returning his attention to Flopsy on the counter. John laughs and casts one more soft look at Sherlock and heads for the shower.

When he comes out, dried, freshly pressed and starving, the flat is eerily quiet. Cautiously he calls out for Sherlock but there's no answer. Oh god, what's the idiot gone and done to himself now?! 

Pushing down thoughts of assassins and poisons and rabbit-related accidents that could've caused Sherlock to seriously injure himself, John walks back into the kitchen. Sherlock isn't there, and neither are any of the rabbits. Confused, John wanders into the sitting room. What he sees there makes him gasp and he's unaware of the pure love shining in his expression. 

Sherlock is lying asleep on the sofa, gently snoring and surrounded by his rabbits. They're nestled into the gaps between him and the cushions, there's one curled up on his chest, its nose snuffling at the edge of his dressing gown. Two are balanced on his feet, their floppy ears brushing his ankles. The one that really does John in though, that almost floors him as an unstoppable tide of affection crashes through his body, is the small, chocolate brown fluffball dozing in Sherlock's hair, its cost almost camouflaged amongst the curls. 

John can't stand it anymore. He has to kiss Sherlock and he has to do it right now. He crosses the sitting room and gently rouses the sleeping detective, picking up rabbits and setting them on the floor. Sherlock blinks blearily at him, then smiles. John lets everything go, tilts his head in question and moves forward. 

The kiss is so light that John wonders if Sherlock would respond at all. He softly presses his lips to Sherlock's, heart pounding in his ears as he takes the gamble. At first there's nothing from Sherlock. John stays where he is for just a few more seconds, trying to ignore the disappointment bubbling up in his gut. Then Sherlock makes a low noise of pleasure in his throat and his hand comes up from the sofa to keep John close and kissing him. John is ecstatic and slowly deepens the kiss, letting his tongue touch Sherlock's bottom lip to encourage him to open up. 

Sherlock does and the kiss grows a bit frantic as their tongues find each other. Sherlock is gripping John's shirt with both hands, trying to hold on as the arousal washes through both of them. John's knees are starting to ache as he kneels there beside the sofa but he couldn't care less. 

Finally he pulls away and opens his eyes. Sherlock's face is flushed, his chest heaving and there's definitely a bulge in his pyjamas. The rabbits rapidly flee to the other side of the room, probably to chew through some of their furniture. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks into John with such lust that John struggles to get his own desire back under control.

Suddenly they come together again, grasping and desperate, as they can't get close enough to each other. Fingers fumble at John's jeans and he cries out as Sherlock takes out his cock and wraps his hand around it. John is delighted by the noises Sherlock makes when he returns the favour, pulling down the pyjama bottoms to free Sherlock's cock. It's fast and frantic now, as they touch each other for the first time. 

John is in heaven but it's not enough. Sherlock seems to agree, and he let's go of John's cock only long enough to heave him up onto the sofa, body against him and cocks pressing together. 

John mumbles his agreement through the cloud of arousal and as his hand wraps around both of them he lets out a heavy moan. Sherlock responds with one of his own and it's a sinful sound, his deep voice reverberating in John's chest as they're pressed against each other. Their kisses become increasingly clumsy as the crescendo builds. 

Sherlock's eyes fly open in surprise and suddenly he's coming, spurting between their bodies. The look of his face is captivating as John keeps stimulating and touching him through his climax. It's instantly John's favourite sight in the whole world and watching Sherlock release and give himself up to the pleasure tips John straight over the edge. He may be shouting Sherlock's name, or at least making a good try of it, as his orgasm bursts through him and his come joins Sherlock's on their clothes. Panting, he removes his hand from them and settle his weight against the man beneath him. 

They come down together slowly, uncaring of the mess they've made between them. Sherlock brings his arms around John's shoulders and strokes his back. John is amazed at this more confident Sherlock and decides immediately that the gambled of kissing him has paid off infinitely. 

"We should clean up, but I really don't want to move," John mumbles. 

"Mmm, yes we should and neither do I," Sherlock answers. They lapse into contented silence for a moment before Sherlock speaks again. 

"John. I think the rabbits were watching."

John lifts his head up and looks Sherlock straight in the eye.

"They better not get any ideas," he says, raising an eyebrow. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock's mouth and they stifle their giggles for all of two seconds, their joyful laughter startling the rabbits playing in the fireplace.


	9. An inadequate phrase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In bed. The time they spend just being together, in bed. That’s Sherlock’s favourite time with John, he decides. As much as Sherlock loves the loud moments, when they’re chasing down suspects or in the midst of a wonderfully engaging puzzle, the quiet moments in bed are his most cherished. When all is calm, unhurried, when he is enveloped in a blanket of stability and comfort and John. The scent of John’s skin and the warmth of his kisses and the gentle power in his touch. John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t actually going to write a Friday ficlet this week, but I picked up my phone on the train and this fluff just tumbled out. *shrugs* 

In bed. The time they spend just being together, in bed. That’s Sherlock’s favourite time with John, he decides. As much as Sherlock loves the loud moments, when they’re chasing down suspects or in the midst of a wonderfully engaging puzzle, the quiet moments in bed are his most cherished. When all is calm, unhurried, when he is enveloped in a blanket of stability and comfort and John. The scent of John’s skin and the warmth of his kisses and the gentle power in his touch. John. 

“John?”

“Hmmm.”

“John. Are you awake?”

“Hmmm? Wh…?”

“Wake up, John. Please.”

“Wh… What is it, Sherlock? You ok?”

“Yes, I… I wanted… I’m fine. It’s… I’m fine. Never mind. Go back to sleep.”

John scowls a bit but his eyes slide shut and his breathing soon evens out again. Sherlock regrets waking him now. Well, regret is a strong word. More, woke John for a specific reason and found himself unable to follow through. He frowns. This is unusual for him, normally when he has chosen a path he goes down it, come rain, shine, or exploding kettles. As ever though John is proving the exception to all of Sherlock’s rules. It’s delightful and maddening all at once. 

He tries again. This is important and therefore worth the investment of time and energy. And worth possibly invoking John’s irritation. Hopefully worth the investment. Hopefully avoiding the irritation. 

“John?”

“Mmmmm.”

“John.”

“Mmmmm, ’m sleeping, Sh'lock.”

“Yes John, but….”

John rolls over and opens his eyes. He looks amused, not irritated. Good. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say what he wants to say but the words suddenly feel too big for his mouth. They’re stuck to his tongue and he gapes for a moment, struggling to wrap his voice around them and make the noises required. 

“G'night Sh'lock. Wake me if you figure it out.”

John rolls back over onto his side, Sherlock’s hand firmly grasped in his, and closes his eyes again. Sherlock closes his mouth with a click and looks down at their joined hands. 

John has beautiful hands. True, they’re a bit stubby, the nails are kept meticulously short and the gun calluses are rough on his palms, but still beautiful. Healing and defending, just like John. 

“John?”

“Mmmmm, no.”

“John, you have beautiful hands.”

“Wha..? Oh, ok. Thank you. Sleep now.” 

“You’re beautiful, John. You told me that but I never…. I mean I…. You’re beautiful. I just wanted you to know.”

John sits up and reaches the hand not entwined with Sherlock’s to Sherlock’s cheek. He strokes along a cheekbone and smiles as he pulls Sherlock forward for a deep, slow kiss. Sherlock sighs and melts into John’s embrace, letting go of his hand to smooth along John’s sturdy shoulders and let John tangle his fingers gently into Sherlock’s hair. He’s always thrilled when John pets his hair. 

Finally John pulls back, smiles again and helps Sherlock lie down, pulling him in such a way so his head comes to rest on John’s chest, one arm draped over his waist. John’s fingers trace a lazy pattern across Sherlock’s shoulders and the feeling of being surrounded by a John blanket lulls the rushing in Sherlock’s mind to an ambient white noise. 

He’s almost asleep when he realises he still hasn’t told John what he wanted to tell him. Those words, that phrase, seemingly so significant to ordinary people, and he hasn’t said it to John. 

John has said it to him, of course. That first night, two weeks ago. John whispered those words, hushed and intimate, into his ear as he gently, devastatingly took Sherlock apart with his hands on his body and his kisses on his neck. After, when he’d offered John the same (or at least a small) amount of pleasure and they’d both regained their mental faculties, Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say it back, but John stopped him, a finger on his lips. 

“Not until you’re ready, then you can tell me,” he’d said. 

Sherlock was in equal parts puzzled and angry. How could John not allow him to return the sentiment? That was the done thing, wasn’t it? How could he not be ready, it wasn’t like they were taking a huge step into the unknown, that had already been accomplished just getting here to the bed and the kisses and the sex. Sherlock was sharply aware of his inexperience in this area but he was pretty sure that was sex. John was being obtuse, just smiled knowingly and went to the bathroom to get a flannel to clean their sticky bodies. 

Thinking about it now though, Sherlock can see what John was doing. Sherlock has always barrelled in headfirst, uncaring of his own comfort or safety. In making him wait, making him think about the words he’d been about to carelessly blurt out, John had made him think deeply about what those words mean. John wanted to make sure Sherlock was certain of his own feelings, make sure Sherlock felt secure enough in them as a “them” before saying something like that to John. 

He understands, he does. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think it wholly unnecessary. If anything, it has merely confirmed Sherlock’s opinion that those words are simply inadequate for what he feels for John. It is all-consuming, burning, bone-deep, irrevocable. It hardly seems fitting that there is only one paltry verb to express such feelings. 

Nevertheless, this is important. This is what people do, and Sherlock wants to give John everything. Including the things he’s not sure apply to them, the things he finds boring, the things that apparently have no meaningful purpose because all of human language has only managed to come up with a single phrase to express such sentiments. Sherlock vows to turn his mind to finding or creating a phrase suitable only for John. Yes, first thing in the morning, he’ll begin. Now though, now he needs to use the existing terms. 

“John.”

John groans and rubs his spare hand over his face. Sherlock glances up and John glares down at him, but his eyes are dancing with unconcealed happiness and there’s no anger in his gaze. Good. Time to take the plunge then. 

“John.”

“Yes Sherlock?” John’s voice is soft, his fingers still making nonsense fuels across Sherlock’s bare skin. It’s very distracting. Focus! Sherlock draws in a breath. In. Out. John’s arms around him tighten, just a little. 

“John, I….”

Sherlock pauses and swallows. Why is this suddenly so hard? He unsticks his tongue and takes one more deep breath. In. Out. He opens his mouth. In the end, the words fall from him easily. 

“I love you, John.”

He does. He really, truly does, deeply and completely with everything that he has, everything that he is. 

John sniffles and squeezes Sherlock even tighter, even closer to him. Oh. Sherlock realises he might’ve accidentally said all that out loud too. John is still sniffling and he sounds in pain. He looks up at John again, alarmed. 

“Did I do it wrong, John? I’m sorry, I can… Can I try again?”

John laughs, wiping tears away from his eyes. He brings both hands to Sherlock’s face. 

“No, you didn’t do it wrong. You meant it, didn’t you? All of it?” 

“Of course, always,” Sherlock says, his brow furrowed with confusion and surprise. Silly John. Of course he meant it, every word. 

John laughs again and leans towards him for a kiss. Sherlock is still puzzled but happily kisses back. Only now John’s kisses feel different. Feel like… more. Seem to reach all the way to Sherlock’s toes, searing into him and through him and all he can hear and see and feel is John. It’s a little overwhelming and Sherlock is delightedly drowning in it, absorbing every second to treasure for eternity.

“See?” John asks when he finally releases Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock nods. Now he does see. John strokes his face and his hair again, and he leans into every movement. 

“I love your touch,” he mumbles and John smiles at him, light in his eyes and they shine. Beautiful, Sherlock thinks. He kisses John one more time and lies down again, head back on John’s chest. 

“I love you too, Sherlock. Sleep now, love. I love you.”

Sherlock nods, mumbles his response back into John’s body. He follows John down into the quiet depths, pulled under slowly and then all at once. He dreams gently. They sleep, wrapped in one another’s love.


	10. Of dough and dérailleurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is working in a bike shop in a tiny town over the summer. A bakery pops up across the street and Sherlock gets himself a sweet treat in the form of one golden rugby player with a bit of a bum leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt which has since been lost in the depths of tumblr somewhere, this is basically just an excuse for me to write about baking. And smut. And Johnlock. Tooth-rotting fluff for your tastebuds, enjoy!

Sherlock snorted in derision as the sign went up in the dusty window of the premises opposite. 

Try Treats - Opening Soon! The sign proudly proclaimed. Our cakes are rucking delicious! 

Rolling his eyes so hard he momentarily wondered if they'd simply pop out of his head, Sherlock turned away from the impending doom beckoning to the icing-brained idiots of the small town. He sighed and leaned back against the wall behind the counter. The bike shop was extremely dull, but this was his penance from Mycroft for that stunt in his private gym. Staying with his brother over the summer proved even more tedious than Sherlock had initially feared. Cambridge refused to keep his halls flat for him between teaching terms so he'd reluctantly agreed to squat in Mycroft's spare rooms. By which was meant the self-contained flat adjoining Mycroft's palatial holiday penthouse that, for some unfathomable reason was located in a small town at the arse end of nowhere in the middle of the Sussex countryside. Of course the boredom had set in rapidly, and Mycroft had been less than happy to come out to his holiday home to find Sherlock practically climbing the walls and tinkering with his beloved exercise bike. The mechanism hadn't really held up to the insertion of olive oil, but curiosity as to the lubricative properties of a common cooking oil on complex fine gears had overwhelmed Sherlock's sense of self-preservation. Such as it was. 

Anyway, all of which had resulted in him spending the remainder of the summer stuck in Lestrade Cycles and glaring at Try Treats' obnoxious signage. 

The proprietor of the offending storefront was Mrs Hudson, a genteel elderly lady whose late son had coached the very successful local rugby team. Now the rumour was she had been persuaded by a recently injured member of the team to open a bakery in the town. Just for the summer, while he recovered from his injury and to do something nice in memory of Sam Hudson. 

Ridiculous. The bakery, not the memorial. Sherlock had never met Sam Hudson but according to Lestrade, his current boss (and Mycroft's current beau, ew), Sam had been a good man. His tragic death had been a great loss. Sherlock understood the idea of commemorating his achievements, he was just of the opinion that cupcakes were a ridiculous way to do so. 

He'd said as much to Lestrade, who laughed and said that they'd been Sam's favourite. Hence the bakery. 

Dragged from his thoughts Sherlock glanced up as two men entered the shop, smiled in greeting and went straight to browsing the parts catalogue. 

Business analyst, happily married, two Pekingnese. His friend, university lecturer, Dutch, on the paleo diet. 

Boring. 

Fearing he was doomed to a pathetic existence filled with bike chains and men with enormous thighs for the duration of the summer, Sherlock thunked his head onto the counter, waving dismissively at the customers to leave him to wither in peace. 

\---------

A few days later there was quite a commotion in the street as Sherlock buried himself in 18th century chemistry texts behind the counter of the deserted bike shop. Quite how Lestrade stayed in business here was a mystery even Sherlock couldn't solve, crushing boredom or no. 

The bakery was opening today. The hubbub was getting louder as women with small children crowded into the tiny store, swarming in and out of the door with sweet and sticky buns, brightly coloured cupcakes, fancy meringues and the most smothered chocolate eclairs Sherlock had ever seen. If the idea was to give the town an extreme sugar high Mrs Hudson and her rugger helper were most of the way there. All that was missing was.... Two children clutching bottles of fizzy drink came squealing down the street. 

Perfect, thought Sherlock. Congratulations Try Treats, type 2 diabetes all round. 

Having never indulged in anything particularly sweet, barely bothering with food beyond the necessary nutrition, Sherlock refused to see the appeal. He was however naturally curious, perhaps he could conduct an experiment on the effect of sugary cakes on his mental processes. He'd wait until the children and parents had dispersed first. No need to force himself through the morass of families unnecessarily. 

Flipping the sign to closed not ten minutes later, Sherlock strode across the street. The bell jingled cheerfully as he entered the now-quiet bakery. Mrs Hudson looked up from wiping the glass display case and smiled widely at him. Unexpectedly he found himself smiling back. 

"So you must me Gregory's summer cover then!" she cooed at him. He nodded. "How lovely! Gregory's told me all about you, how clever you are. Wasted in that shop, you both are. Now, what would you like? As you can see we've been rather popular! John's just whipping up a new batch of scones though, should be ready soon. He's just back there if you want to poke your head in and check?" 

Winking at him, Mrs Hudson stepped round to the front of the display and carried on cleaning, pretending not to watch him out of the corner of her eye. Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Sherlock lifted the hinged counter-top and walked towards the rear of the shop. 

The heat was the first thing he noticed, the ovens blasting through the room and making the the space feel stifling. It was brightly lit with a long steel worktop taking up most of the available floor space. The surface was covered in flour and mixture. Sherlock took in the details methodically before raising his eyes to the man in his mid-twenties standing in front of the main oven. 

He was broad shouldered, blonde, shorter than Sherlock had thought a rugby player would be, and currently carefully placing a tray of scones into the oven. Sherlock's eyes tracked down the man's back, noting the stretch of his t-shirt across a strong back, down to the flour-dusted training bottoms (left-handed then) and... Oh. A quite magnificent arse. 

Sherlock didn't realise he'd been staring until the man -John- turned around. Face flushing a bright crimson, Sherlock lifted his gaze to the face which went with the arse. 

Oh shit. It was even worse than he thought. 

John's deep blue eyes sparkled with mirth and mischief, his mouth drawn in a soft smile. His hair was cut short but the fringe brushed just so to the right side of his gorgeous face. The t-shirt wasn't skin tight but Sherlock could just make out the powerful musculature beneath. 

Well, he was definitely fucked. 

John didn't seem at all bothered by the appearance of a strange young man in his kitchen and simply picked up the next batch of scone dough, tipping the mixing bowl onto the floured work surface. He gently dusted his hands with flour to prevent the dough sticking and went to work. 

Sherlock was mesmerised as he watched John knead the scone mix gently. His hands were small but strong, and as he leaned and worked with the mix his shoulders firmed and softened rhythmically. What Sherlock's eyes were automatically drawn to however, were the muscles of his biceps flexing. Suddenly his mind was flooded with images of those arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him onto the table and tightening to pull him flush to John's broad chest. John's eyes flicking up to his, his mouth a cheeky smirk, his hands on the small of Sherlock's back and in his hair, pulling Sherlock's mouth down to that smirk, the touch of a soft kiss...

Shaking his head and closing his drooping mouth, Sherlock cleared his throat and backed out of the kitchen. 

"Come back in half an hour, be ready for you then," came a quiet voice from the back of the shop. 

Sherlock didn't even hear Mrs Hudson speaking to him as he stumbled out of the shop and dashed back into the safety of the bike shop. 

\--------

Thirty minutes. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

Sherlock drummed his fingers nervously on his knee. He wouldn't go back to the bakery. He wouldn't. John the rugby playing baker would just have to sit with Mrs Hudson. Drink tea. Eat a scone. Go back through to the hot kitchen, start working on the next batch. Tipping out the mixture, rubbing his strong hands together in flour, kneading the mix, powerful arms flexing, t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and back, leaning up on the balls of his feet to push into the dough, jogging bottoms fitting to the luscious curve of that arse....

Sherlock shook his head violently to clear the images flooding his brain and causing his body temperature to rise unbidden. This was insufferable. He'd experienced attraction before of course, but this was different. 

Attraction before had meant a soft spike of interest, a clumsy attempt to ignore the pretty boy suddenly paying him attention, a tiny rush of anticipation at the boy's lips pressing to his. For a short time it was close to happiness, feeling like he was no longer alone. Then came the humiliation. He was no longer interesting, a summit conquered. The jeers and laughter of the friends. Victor hadn't even bothered to defend Sherlock when the first fist was thrown. 

After that Sherlock had closed off any part of himself which could be exposed in that way again, clamping down viciously on his feelings and surrounding himself with a cloak of imperiousness and cool logic. Determined never to feel that way again. 

Now, all that had been swept away. The barriers fell, the walls crumbled and all he wanted to do was crawl into the arms of a rugby playing oaf who baked, feel those hands on his skin, those lips against his.

Insufferable! John was intriguing, certainly. Small in stature, large on the field. Strong but gentle. Mischievous but soft. And currently filling all the empty spaces inside Sherlock's sizeable brain. 

He wouldn't go back. John had just been friendly, they were after all almost the same age. He was just looking at the only person roughly his age in this tiny, pathetic little town, since it was summer and his rugby mates were off doing... Whatever. Mrs Hudson had probably said something. Sherlock wasn't listening. 

He wouldn't go back. 

Sherlock glanced up at the clock and as the hands finally reached the hour he was already out of the door. 

\---------

Mrs Hudson just smiled and nodded as Sherlock stood in the doorway, suddenly unsure. She chuckled under her breath, called through to John that she was popping out for a bit and promptly disappeared. Sherlock quickly gathered himself and marched through to the bakery's kitchen. John was standing behind the counter with a piping bag in his hand, carefully icing cupcakes, his tongue delightfully captured between his lips as he focused on his delicate task. Sherlock felt his knees quiver at the sight and immediately jerked upright, scolding himself furiously. 

"Be right with you, gorgeous," John said, lifting his head to wink at Sherlock. 

Sherlock felt his stomach drop swiftly into his groin and a flare of heat shot through him along with it. 

"So, Mrs Hudson tells me that you're working over the road, and that you're a sharp one," John said conversationally, still focused on the blue and yellow cupcakes. 

Sherlock frowned and muttered under his breath about town gossip and inanity. John just grinned at him before finishing up the icing and proudly moving the tray to one side. He looked like a golden god, standing there with icing sugar dusted in his hair and across his cheeks, the light from the sunny afternoon catching his lightly tanned skin and making him seem to glow with warmth. Sherlock was dismayed at the poetic thoughts tumbling through his mind and launched into his deductions about John at full pelt. 

"Final year medical student, played rugby since high school, estranged from close relatives, you view your teammates as family. You've baked since a young age but only now are truly indulging your passion for patisserie. You're skilled with your hands and don't view this as an effeminate activity and you're comfortable with your sexuality, no matter what your father might've said. You were find of Sam Hudson and you're glad to be helping his mother, despite the injury to your leg... The right, if I'm not mistaken."

He snapped his mouth shut with a click. This was the part where John got pissed off and manhandled him out of the shop. Probably for the best, but if this was as close as Sherlock would get to the gorgeous rugger, he'd take being kicked about. He risked a glance at John's face. 

John was smiling widely, hands in his hips as he ran a hand through his hair. 

"That was... Extraordinary," he said softly. "How did you... No, don't tell me, you.... Yep, you got me. Even down to the right leg! Wow. Mrs Hudson was right about you."

Sherlock was astonished, and could only nod. Mrs Hudson was indeed right. John's mouth twitched into a smile and he turned away, leaning towards a box on the counter. 

"I promised you scones, I believe," he said over his shoulder. He reached into the box and produced a scone, setting it on a plate. Sherlock tilted his head as John retrieved cream and jam from the fridge and lavished the scone with a thick layer of both. He pushed the plate towards Sherlock and stepped back to watch.

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock lifted the treat and took a bite. His eyes fluttered shut in delight as the smooth, rich cream and crumbly scone melted in his mouth. The sweetness and tartness of the jam left a lovely tang on his tongue. He wondered why he'd never tried this before, clearly an unacceptable gap in his knowledge. It was divine and unfortunately, already almost entirely gone. 

A small sigh of pleasure escaped his lips and his eyes shot open in horror. The last bit of scone fell from his hand and flumped onto the counter. There was a sharp intake of breath.

John was staring at him, biting his lower lip. Their eyes met and Sherlock couldn't tear himself away from the heat in John's gaze. 

"You, um, you have a bit..."John said. He moved slowly around to stand in front of Sherlock and reached up to brush a splodge of cream from the tip of Sherlock's nose. Sherlock watched as John's finger went to his own mouth and he sucked the cream off of it. 

John licked his lips. "Oh, I give in," he murmured. "I have to kiss you now, ok?"

Against his better judgement Sherlock nodded, his body taking control and moving towards the glorious man in front of him. He closed his eyes and felt John's hand gently cupping his jaw. The kiss was soft, an almost chaste press of lips and Sherlock was suddenly drowning in it. He opened his mouth tentatively as John's tongue entered the fray and couldn't help the sounds emitting from his throat as John stroked his face with his fingers, exploring his mouth with his tongue. 

The arousal in Sherlock's gut flamed hotly and he was appalled to find his climax swiftly approaching. He broke away from John, panting and horrified. His first thought was to bolt and delete the entire experience but he was frozen, stuck there waiting for the humiliation. 

John reached out for Sherlock and pulled him close. "Easy, it's ok," he mumbled. "I'm not going to hurt you and I'm not going to laugh, either." 

Sherlock huffed indignantly and opened his mouth to begin a tirade explaining that he was not a jittery horse, refused to be gentled and could manage a little light kissing without shooting off in his pants, dammit, but something in John's tone stopped him. It almost seemed... Genuine. Sincere. As if John actually cared? A bit?

Stunned and thrown off balance yet again by this incomprehensible rugger, Sherlock allowed John to kiss him again. John's nimble hands settled in his waist and teased at the top of his trousers, pulling their bodies flush and despite the height difference, pressing their erections together. 

They gasped in tandem, breaking the kiss. John's thick thigh slid between Sherlock's legs and he moaned at the pressure as one of John's hands rubbed down his hip and round to his bum. The force of John's grasp on Sherlock arse pushed them even closer and their mouths found each other again. The kisses turned messy as Sherlock lost himself in the delicious pleasure of John's tongue, frotting against John's thigh as Sherlock's hands wandered to every part of John he could reach.

John groaned loudly, and merely squeezed Sherlock harder. All too suddenly Sherlock felt his orgasm overtake him, the delicious pleasure radiating out through his every pore as he came right there in his trousers. His body shuddered and he vaguely registered that he was gasping John's name. Gradually the shaking subsided and reality crashed back on on him with a crushing weight. 

John's face was buried in Sherlock's shoulder and he was panting heavily. One of his hands had vanished into his jogging bottoms and Sherlock belatedly realised what he was doing. Seeing the blatant desire in John's eyes made Sherlock feel bold and he reached down to wrap his own hands around John's.

John's eyes widened, his mouth dropped open and spasms shook him as he spent. Breathless, they leant back on the kitchen counter, side by side. 

The laughter started with John but Sherlock was quickly joining in, his low chuckles mingling with John's silly high-pitched giggles. They tapered off after a couple of minutes, only to begin again in earnest when they caught each other's eyes. 

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done, and I'd do it all over again as soon as possible," John breathed between giggle fits. 

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered, taken aback and thrilled in equal measures at those words. John gestured towards the box of scones still sitting on the counter, setting the lid back in place and hiding the box under the counter. 

"I was going to put these in the window tomorrow, but now I'm pretty sure I'll have inappropriate thoughts about the hottie in the bike shop every time someone buys one," he explained, grinning. 

Sherlock grinned back, feeling lighter than he knew was possible with only sweet baked goods in one's stomach. His summer had just gotten tremendously interesting. He leaned down confidently, seeking John's lips again. 

"I shall never look at a scone the same way again, that's certain."


	11. With and Without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two ficlets from Sherlock's PoV - what it's like without John, and what it's like with.

Without 

Confused, terrified, I flee to the bathroom. I slam the door hard enough to rattle the glass and stand there, my back to the cool surface, panting. 

I try to calm my breathing, regain control of the manic swirling in my head. My heart feels as though it is being squeezed, as if gravity itself is compressing it into a shrivelled, withered husk inside my chest. Dimly through the rushing blood in my ears, I can hear him moving about in the bedroom. Collecting discarded clothes, slipping into his shoes, fixing his hair in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. 

At first I could block the repulsion, the instinctive desire to shrink from his disgusting familiar touch. I was always used to being used for his pleasure, this time would be no different. 

But for whatever reason he insisted on reciprocating this time. I clamp my eyes tightly shut in a feeble attempt to block out the images flashing across my mind like a hideous slideshow. Tormenting me, mocking my panic and fear. 

His hands on my skin, his lips against mine, his mouth on.... 

I shove both hands into my hair and pull hard. The pain grounds me, brings me back from the edge of my hysteria. I pull fiercely again and a few dark strands come away between my fingers. 

He's stopped moving now, outside the other bathroom door. He sniffs, I know he's lifted a hand to knock on the door but he changes his mind at the last minute. He sighs, then laughs under his breath. Laughs at me, standing naked in my bathroom, tears stinging my eyes, pulling on my hair. He knows what I'm doing, he's seen me do it before, but he doesn't know the true cause of it this time. The real reason I have failed. I'm trying to cool the crawling heat in my veins, soothe the spidery itching in my bones, mend the gaping hole of longing in my chest. The hole I know cannot be filled, the chasm of my love for the one man who will never know of it.   
His voice is a bit slurred and thick when he speaks. 

"Sh'lock? I'm leaving now. This was fun, we should do it again sometime." 

He laughs again, the sound of it pierces my ears and I bring my hands up to them as it scrapes through the chaos in my mind. 

"Don't worry about the... It's just a side effect of this stuff. It'll wear off. Hopefully before your good doctor comes home!" He sniggers. "Well, see you!"

He blows an obscene kiss through the door and I can't stand it anymore. My knees give way and I crumple to a heap on the bathroom floor. The tears flow freely now, streaking down my face and landing softly on my knees as I curl up and rest my head on them. The rushing in my brain is beginning to calm now but the ache in my chest is still there. 

It will always be there, I think miserably. My foolish attempt to make it stop has only increased its potency.

I shiver. It's cold on the floor but I don't care. I close my eyes and concentrate. Delete him. Delete the last few hours. I've tried to remove the inciting event, or at least enough of the detail that it won't spring to mind and cruelly taunt me in the darkness, at random moments when my thoughts are unguarded. It hasn't worked, though of course I knew I wouldn't be able to scrub it. Any of it. I quickly learned that anything relating to John stays indefinitely, stubbornly refusing to be obliterated. 

Victor though, Victor I can delete. I screw my face up, I haven't done that since I was small, and force the memories into the void. I can't remove the slick feel of his touch from my skin, the sour taste of his breath from my mouth, but I can at least banish it to the very depths of my mind palace, chain it up there and leave it to rot. 

There's only one thing that could permanently erase this experience. Only one who could wash it away, replace the disgust and self-loathing with warmth, tenderness, love. 

But he's with his new wife now. He's not here, beside me, close to me, in me. And he never will be. 

*******

With 

My heart is pounding. All those months, years, of yearning. All the heartbreak and loss and distrust and betrayal and horror of the past. It has all been leading to this. I know it has, I felt it that very first instant my eyes met his. I just had no way to identify it back then. I had never felt anything like it before, I was terrified. I pushed it away, not knowing at the time that it would come to be all I ever wanted. 

I thought myself incapable of it for a long time, I never needed it so I never searched for it. I ignored and eschewed emotion and sentiment as I had learned to. I rejected it outright with no hesitation. 

My brother was more right than i think even he thought. It is not an advantage. It is a dangerous, invincible thing, to love. But he was wrong too. It has given me strength when I was weakest, calm when I have been at my most desperate. It has been a source of life when death has been smiling down at me, ready to clutch me to its breast and pull me below the surface forever. 

It was never to be, I had accepted that. He would always remain out of my reach, but as long as I could see him smile, hear his voice, drink him in when he came near, I would be content. He is integral to my very being, without him I am nothing. Without him, I fade and wane, shrinking into a former version of myself that I detest. 

I have made so many mistakes because I couldn't handle it. I tried to cage it, lock it away, keep it from ever being brought into the light. I wasn't able, I was unprepared and foolish. 

And now, now I am ready. The thread is pulled taut, the air is thick, the moment is almost here. I can sense its approach and I am frantically trying to let it happen. To not do anything to stop the inevitable. This is not my area, I don't know what I'm doing! It's both horrifying and freeing to realise this and to give the moment over entirely to him. 

John will know what to do. His eyes show everything, all that we have never said. Should I? Should I say it? I have no idea what is expected and I am beginning to panic that I will get this wrong. It has to be perfect. He is perfect, he deserves perfection and I must give it to him. 

He sees it, the briefest flash across my face before I shut it down and get it back under control. I close my eyes, waiting for the sound of his footsteps walking away from me. What comes next is... Unexpected. 

He laughs softly, I feel his hand against my cheek. Startled, I open my eyes and find him closer than before. My heart is racing and I can't help it, my gaze flickers to his lips before returning to his eyes again. 

He smiles and it breaks me in two. The affection, the fondness, the purity of the love in that smile has rent me to my core. That he feels a fraction of what he is letting me see there now is not real, it can't be. Can it?

He seems to know the path of my thoughts because he nods. Just the slightest inclination of his head. He is still smiling, still holding my face, and his other hand has found its way to my shoulder. I like the feel of it, the weight of it, the heat of him so close. 

"Sherlock," he whispers. The thread snaps and I can't hold back the tide anymore. I tilt my head as he moves forward and our mouths meet. 

I am instantly overwhelmed. The softness of his kiss belies the power coiled in him that I know he is struggling to contain. Unleash it John, I silently implore him. Release it, let it consume me. If it is to destroy me I will gladly allow it. I can feel him pouring his love into this kiss and I desperately try to keep up, to give him back all he has given me. 

We part, panting, still pressed together. My face is wet and I suddenly realise I am crying. I look at John, he's crying too. I'm frightened to see this and without thinking, I lift my hand to his cheek and wipe away a tear with my thumb. 

His eyes fly open and he watches me. Just watches me touch him. I can only just prevent a fresh wave of tears falling from my eyes. His voice is so quiet, broken but not hurt, as far as I can tell. He speaks my name as though it were a precious jewel, he holds me as though I am fragile and delicate, something to be treasured. I drown in it, inhaling him and filling my lungs with all that he is. John. 

He brushes his thumb across my cheek and kisses me again. I am no less overwhelmed from knowing what to expect this time. I could spend all of eternity kissing him like this and it would always surprise and delight me. When he pulls away again I am bereft, he rests his head on my shoulder and I wrap my arms around him. I secure him to my body and his shoulders twitch as he chuckles into my coat. I lower my head to rest on his, just lightly. The scent of his hair is warm in my nose and it's so soft.

We stand there for a long time, comfort and joy and love. I breathe him in and give him all of me through our embrace. He is in my skin, my heart, my soul, filling the holes and gaps and spaces. I allow myself to love him, I allow him to love me, and I am finally complete.


	12. The easiest words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't say it that day. I should but I don't." 
> 
> All the times John doesn't tell Sherlock and the one time he finally does.

The easiest words

I don't say it that very first time. Our eyes meet and it's like a bolt of electricity hits me, searing through me to my core. Pure, hot, sharp, I don't really know what it is then, and it takes me longer than I care to admit even now to recognise it for what it is. I've never felt it before, I thought I had. I was wrong though, it's nothing like the mere shadows that floated inside me before him. It's thrilling and it's terrifying. I'm not making excuses but I do think that's partly why it took so long. That intensity, that fierceness, it's bloody frightening.

He says "Afghanistan or Iraq?" at 1.34pm that day and I'm instantly lost. 

******

I don't say it that night in Dartmoor when he's panicking. I can see he's struggling, lashing out because he doesn't really know how to handle what's happening but instead of pushing past it, letting his cutting words slide off of me, I get up and walk away from him. I feel really stupid and childish and petty but I don't care. It hurts and I want to lick my wounds in peace. Then he bloody goes and makes it worse, drugging me and scaring me, locking me in a lab. Bastard. I forgive him though, I even shoot the damn dog for him. I always forgive him, because I can't not. Even when he's being a massive twat. I get angry, sure, I know I've a horrible temper, but I walk away, I cool off, I come back. I can't not. 

He says "I have to see a man about a dog," at 10.57am that day and I smile. 

******

I don't say it then. I should've. Oh god, I should've. That day isn't even the worst day of my life. It's the ones that come after, the grey and beige and blankness that settles in, shrouding me, suffocating me, slowly blanketing me as I see him fall over and over. I sit on my bed, my gun in my hand again, and wonder how time can keep passing, how the world can just carry on, how anyone can keep going, now he's not here anymore. I let it rush into me, feel its weight pressing down around my heart, ripping holes in my body that can never be filled without him. I should've said it, taken that risk, accepted that it might go horribly wrong for the chance that it might just be completely, utterly right. I hate him for doing this, leaving me without him, and I hate myself for my cowardice, my refusal to just understand and just say it. I should've said it. Then maybe he would still be here. 

He says "Goodbye, John," at 4.15pm that day and I shatter into infinite, irreparable pieces. 

******

I don't say it that night in the Landmark. I want to, oh god how I want to. I want to shake him and punch him and scream at him and pull him tight to my body and never let him go. But I don't. She's just there, in the space that's always been his, watching. I know she can't fill that space, she never will, no-one will because it's his. But she's there beside us as I try to get control of the maelstrom inside me. I wrap my hands around his throat, grapple him to the floor, get us kicked out of the hotel. I'm spitting feathers. I'm so angry. How dare he?! How fucking dare he?!! And yet, through the haze of my fury I feel his skin beneath my fingertips and my heart soars. He's here. He's back. He's real. I can feel his pulse. Steady, elevated but steady. I nut him later and shout at him but he's here. And for that I will always be grateful. 

He says "are you really going to keep that?!" at 8.28pm that day and I break again only to let him in deeper. 

*****

I don't say it on my wedding day. I have no idea why I'm going through with this. Well, that's not true, I do know why I'm going through with this. It's wrong though, it's all wrong. But it's too late. I didn't say it then and I can't say it now. He does instead. Sort of. He fumbles through an utterly ridiculous speech and declares, I dunno, something, in the middle of it that makes me want to stand up and wrap my arms around him, kiss him breathless and let him absorb me into his very skin. I don't do that, well not all of it. I do stand up and awkwardly hug him to me, my eyes damp and my ears ringing with his words. But there's still too much space between us, too much distance, too much... Fuck. I know I've screwed this up but there's no backing down now. 

He says "You'll hardly need me around now you have a real baby on the way," at 9.13pm that day and I make a crass joke at his expense. 

******

I don't say it in the ambulance, watching through dulled eyes as his heart battles the bullet lodged inside him. I whisper it in my mind, begging him not to leave, not to go where I can't follow. The shrill beeping of the machines tethers me to reality but only just. I want so badly, I want to rub my hands across the gaping hole in his chest and erase the past few days, weeks, months, years, goddammit. My mouth runs dry and my eyes ache as I stand there on the outside. I watch the surgeons at work and I want to march through the doors and take over. Bark orders at them, make them work faster, harder, make him whole again. Take away the pain and the bullet and the bone-deep agony. He battles against it and he loses. I grip the door handle so tightly it leaves an impression on my palm. I clench and unclench my fists at my sides until my hands cramp and my fingers go numb. Then the monitor blips. He comes back to me. The next few days pass in a blur, I sit by his bedside and watch him. Just watch him. Then he disappears. I try to follow but he calls and tells me to meet him. I do, I follow his instructions, I always fucking follow his instructions and my world comes crashing down around my ears. I watch her and I no longer recognise her. I listen to her, turn the memory stick over in my hands and I feel it wither and die inside me. It doesn't matter. There was only ever enough for him anyway. 

He says "Because... You chose her," at 11.09pm that day and I drown in my despair. 

******

I don't say it standing on the tarmac, waiting for him to leave me. Again. I see his brother raise an eyebrow infinitesimally before he walks away. I go over and stand in front of him, this impossible, infuriating, brilliant, incredible man. For a moment I think he's about to say it and I can't. I can't hear it, I can't say it. I just can't. I'm such a mess and he's going away. I'm not stupid, I know he might not come back this time. I can't lose him, not again, it'll destroy me. But I can't keep him either. I can't let myself be with him, hold him, kiss him, lose myself in all that he is and let him have all that I am. It's too late. Again. He opens his mouth and I look away. He takes a deep breath and I'm not ready for this, not ready for any of it. Then he says something daft and I startle into laughter. It's not what I want, but it's the best we can do. Everything's all wrong. 

He says "To the very best of times, John," at 3.15pm that day and I just dumbly watch him walk away. 

******

I don't say it when it's all over. I'm exhausted and so is he. I should feel happy, free even, I guess. I don't. The weight of all that's happened is still too much for me to carry. The falsehoods, the anger, the loss of something I didn't really want. The lies, the cold hatred, the retribution. It's all gone now. She's gone. And she's never coming back. I'm free of her but not of him. Never of him. And what's worse is I never want to be. It's not healthy, I know this isn't healthy. But I just don't care anymore. I move back to the only place I've ever really thought of as home and we slowly, gradually, gently, fall back into each other. There's a line I don't let my thoughts cross, everything is so fragile. So when I feel the words on the tip of my tongue I swallow them down. I don't want to say it and get it wrong. He's softer now, more open, more tender and it's killing me. I tell myself I'm waiting for the right time but I know it's bullshit. I'm scared again. Terrified of fucking it up and losing everything. So I don't take the chance. I will though. One day, I promise myself I will. When it's right. When it's not so hard. I will. 

He says "I'm glad you're back, John," at 12.41pm that day and I hate myself so much it burns. 

*****

I don't say it when I drop him into his bed after the case. We've had some dinner and I can see him wobbling on his feet as he gets up to clear away the plates. He's gone two days without sleep and he's so tired he can barely see straight. I chuckle under my breath as he sways in the kitchen and I reach up to grab his arm and tug him towards his bedroom. I've done this before of course, many times. Bloody idiot goes so long without eating or sleeping properly then just crashes every time. Part of me can't believe he can still do it. I wrestle him out of his stupidly tight shirt and trousers and I let my hands linger on his skin. He hums contentedly under his breath as I manhandle him under his sheet. It's warm in the room and he shuffles down into the bed, sighing my name. I freeze. He mumbles something, asks me to stay. I want to. I could. I decide and I do. I get into the bed beside him and we lie there in the dark. I feel the warmth of his body and I let myself breathe him in. It swells in my throat, the words I so badly want to say but I swallow them down again. He shifts next to me and suddenly we're face to face. My hand is somehow in his hair, pushing it back as he drowsily looks at me. His face is so open in that moment and I'm lost. I tilt my head and press my lips to his. Finally. I take the chance. He goes stiff and I'm crushed, I try to move away. Then he sighs my name against my mouth and surges forward into me. We kiss and kiss and kiss and I'm so happy I feel I could split in two. He rests his head on my good shoulder and his hand trails over my chest, fingers stroking my shirt. He falls asleep there, nestled into me and I wrap my arms around him so tightly to pull him close. I never want to move, to leave this bed, this moment. But I have to. He needs to rest and I don't want to presume. I force myself up and away from his body against mine and I'm so cold without him pressed into me. I manage not to wake him and I trudge upstairs to my own room. I lie in my own bed and wonder what the fuck I'm doing lying here instead of lying in his arms. I close my eyes but I can't drift off, not knowing that he's in that bed, in that room below me. Without me. I toss and turn and wind up on my back, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. Then I hear it. Feet on the stairs. The creak of my bedroom door. A crack of light from the landing and a shadow in the doorway. He stands there and I look at him, drink him in. Sleepy, soft, rubbing his eyes, his hair mussed from my fingers and his pyjama bottoms hanging from his too-sharp hips. He's perfect and I love him so much, so deeply and irrevocably. 

He says "John?" at 1.27am that day and I finally know. 

It's the simplest thing in the world to open my arms, let him in and say it. The words fall from my lips and I say them again, I want to make sure he hears it and he never stops hearing it for as long as I can say it. 

The easiest words. 

"I love you, Sherlock."


End file.
